


Grá, Dílseacht, Cairdeas

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Charlie Weasley - Freeform, Coworkers to lovers, Durmstrang is in Finland for me, Hogwarts, John's an Auror, Lestrade is minister of magic!, M/M, Severus Snape (Mentioned) - Freeform, Sherlock does not like Ireland, Sherlock works for the ministry of magic, need help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:26:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love. Loyalty. Friendship. And for god's sake, not in that order.#</p><p>/"Really," Sherlock starts, letting out a sigh of frustration, "Éire. They couldn't come up with anything better than the Irish name for fucking Ireland? Imagine we had a gate, decorated with the word England, oh boy, that would be a fucking tourist attraction, now wouldn't it!"/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are highly appreciated!

Sherlock audibly groans before banging his head against the polished work space of his mahony desk. He reckons he must look quite ridiculous...and stressed out. Which he is, well, stressed out. Heavy piles of letters, parchment and paper all alike, decorated with the crimson _URGENT_ mark and caps locked sentences screaming out REPLY ASAP and SECRECY IS ADVISED, heaped up on the small desk. Surrounding his head and making it impossible for any body to even see the young man when they would walk into his office. Which they don't, because every body, to the last man, that works at the Department of Improper Use Of Magic knows it's a bad, really bad idea, to disturb the great Sherlock Holmes while working. Or, well, while doing paper work. 

There's the muffled scratch of claws that certainly belong to an owl, a bengal eagle owl, Sherlock muses, at the window. Disturbing the serene silence Sherlock tried to find solitude in. With a groan and a shrug he stands up. Slowly, worn out. He opens the window and is greeted by a hoot and a gentle pick in his finger, causing him to hiss slightly, quickly taking the little roll of yellowed parchment off the owl's leg. The owl departs before he even gets the chance to take a closer look, leaving him alone again. 

After sitting down, he opens the roll, breaking the scarlet seal, the symbol of the Ministry of Magic of Ireland engraved in the cooled off wax. Ireland. Bloody Ireland. The letter is utterly uninteresting, somebody going on about the dissemination of hexed kettles in muggle households and their possibly fatal consequences. Nothing has happened yet, hence possibly, and that's why Sherlock doesn't feel the need to interfere or do anything of any sorts to help out. 

A knock on his door breaks the silence for a second, equally unpleasant, time again, and without as much as an invitation, Lestrade walks in.   
"Minister," Sherlock greets, without looking up; his feather hectically scribbling a reply onto the parchment in front of him.   
"Sherlock," he answers, jovially. Which is not a good thing, because every time Lestrade sounds like this, something has happened. Sherlock looks up, unable to keep the cocksure smile from cutting at the edges of his mouth.   
"Something happened. Tell me," Sherlock demands, laying down the feather and concentrating on the smaller, greying wizard in front of him. He looks so utterly displaced here, he thinks to himself. Between these bookshelves filled with magic he can't even imagine and spells he wouldn't be able to master after years of concentrated training surrouned by documents concerning matters he wouldn't even be interested in, Lestrade looks like a goblin casually strolling into Beauxbatons.   
"Well," Lestrade starts, visibly struggling with telling Sherlock. Which Sherlock is used to, because nobody asks Sherlock for help. Only if it is absolutely necessary and has the highest priority mark on it. That's when he jumps in. When that's not the case, they just leave him there to rot in his head office of his department, writing angry howlers to young teenagers who can't keep their wand in their trousers and feel the need to be as humble as an elephant dancing a solo from swan lake on a tight rope.   
"If this is about Ireland, please, don't tell me you disturb me for that," Sherlock interrupts his stammering, eyebrows raising.  
"What?" Lestrade looks genuinely confused, but Sherlock's not going to rely on that impression, because Lestrade has the habit of always looking confused. That's just his face. "No. No, of course not. Why in Merlin's name would Ireland...whatever. No. We need your help."  
"Guessed that much," he replies, sarcasm coating his voice. "What is it this time?" 

Lestrade sighs and conjures up a chair, sitting down with an even deeper sigh. "You are familiar with the name Voldemort?"   
If he wasn't interested in whatever Lestrade had came for, well, he is now. Voldemort. Flight of death. Of course he knows him, the greatest criminal that ever existed; a holocaust in the magic world, muggles would surely compare him and his followers to Nazis.  
"Of course, Lestrade." Is all he says, trying not to sound too interested.  
"You know about the war? The losses we suffered? The people who died?"  
"Yes."  
"There's...something going on," Lestrade tells him, distress showing clearly in his eyes. He always looks tired and stressed, but now, as Sherlock is allowed to take a closer look, he realises he plainly looks sick. The bags under his eyes shining a translucent blue, wrinkles resembling ravines cutting through his skin.   
"He's ... he's back?" Sherlock asks, almost whispering. Because, oh boy, this is big.   
"No. There...There have been a lot of murders, involving muggleborns. We think there's an imposter on the run." Lestrade sighs, burying his hands in the grey strands of his hair, slowly massaging his temples.   
Sherlock lets out a soft groan, nullifying the sincerity of it by displaying a smile that practically screams with excitement.   
"That's interesting. Someone who clearly follows and approves of Voldemort's..let's call it ethos. Forcing it back out there by murdering people who do not fit into that concept. I'll take it!" He exclaims happily, causing Lestrade's eyebrows to rise dangerously high, almost reaching his receding hairline; and for one split second Sherlock's afraid they'll dissapear behind the soft mess of grey hair, never to be seen again.    
"Great," Greg just answers, throwing another stack of files onto Sherlock's desk, "We're sending you somebody. Help."   
Sherlock chuckles and shrugs before answering, "No need to, Greggy. I work alone." He stresses the last word with such force, emphasising it because it's true. Nobody works with Sherlock. Nobody's able to.  
"Though luck, then. His name is John Watson, he'll arrive in a couple of hours."  
A couple of hours? Sherlock muses, where the fuck is he coming from? Japan? Outer space?  
"He insisted on flying here, all the way from Ireland...Poor bloke, I reckon we might find him in the Thames, frozen to death," Lestrade answers, as if he read his thoughts, turning around while fiddling with his coat. He always does that when he's nervous.   
"Well then." Lestrade turns around before walking out the door, looking at Sherlock with a serious expression on his face, making him look even older. "Be nice, Sherlock. Your brother sorted him out. He's good."   
Sherlock lets out a grunt, "Tell Mycroft to keep his abnormally large nose out of my business. And my cases."  
  
-

Sherlock can tell John Watson arrived by the way the knock on the door sounds. Firm and short. Nobody he knows knocks like that; plus, there's no reason for anybody else to come to his office so that kind of gave it away in the first place.   
"Yes," he calls out, still scanning the files Lestrade gave him, briefly looking up as his gaze meets the one belonging to a shorter, slightly older, toned man with a broom in his hand and some files in the other.   
"Ah, John Watson," Sherlock says, conjuring up a comfortable leather chair for the Auror to sit in, gesturing him to sit down.  
He politely takes the place while nodding, greeting the younger wizard with a nod and a grunt that sounds faintly like _Mister Holmes_.   
"Call me Sherlock." John nods again and takes out his wand, shrinking his broom to the size of a paperclip, safely putting it away in the pocket of his leather jacket, causing Sherlock to fail miserable at hiding a grin.  
"No quidditch fan?" he asks, smiling a bit.   
"Detest it. Awful sport, no fun at all. Plus, not really the most comfortable way of travelling." Sherlock answers, noticing how John can't seem his cocksure smile from slipping a bit.  
"Ah, well. Yes, there are always those." Is all he answers.   
  
Sherlock scans the other wizard. He's toned; broad shoulders and trained legs, all thanks to that dreadful sport the man seems to enjoy so much. His posture's remarkably straight, probably because of his training, an Auror is something very much alike what muggles call soldiers and god, his short hair practically has the word military written all over it in neon letters.   
"You're from Ireland?" He inquires, still looking at John, causing him to squirm slightly.   
"No," he answers, clearing his throat before continuing, "Stationed there, work with the Irish ministry."   
"Ah." Sherlock responds, "Why Ireland?"  
"My sister lives there."  
Sherlock can tell by the way his eyebrows furrow and his hands clench John's sister is trouble.  
"You're a muggleborn," he switches the subject, shoving some files in John's direction.   
"Yes," John answers, nodding gratefully while taking the files, "Why?"  
"They're the target." Sherlock says shortly. "You can handle danger?"   
What happens next is something Sherlock isn't able to explain. Not even him, with his scanning and analytical mind, can comprehend why John's eyes harden at the words he's about to speak. Liquid mercury turning into solid steel, oceans freezing, harsh breezes and glaciers.   
"You have no idea." 

And god, no, he really hasn't. 

-

They're in Ireland. Motherfucking Ireland. Sherlock tenses up the moment the cold, harsh air hits his face; rumpling through his curls, making his breath visible and his fingers tremble.   
"It's cold-d," he says, teeth chattering so hard he worries they might chip in his mouth, earning an impatient glare from the Auror next to him. John doesn't seem to be bothered by the cold, if anything, he seems more relaxed since they left the building to which they Floo'd, and Sherlock reckons he's just glad to escape the hectic, vivid chaos that is the ministry of magic right now. More muggleborns have been killed, particularly in Dublin, leading up the them having to visit the Ministry of Magic, Irish department. Great.   
  
They quickly disappear into a dark alley, one of the innumerable that map out the capitol of the republic, apparating in front of a bronze, weathered gate. The word Éire written on it in big, golden letters.   
"Really," Sherlock starts, letting out a sigh of frustration, "Éire. They couldn't come up with anything better than the Irish name for fucking Ireland? Imagine we had a gate, decorated with the words England, oh boy, that would be a fucking tourist attraction, now wouldn't it!"  
John just sighs at Sherlock's public display of annoyance, as he always does. They've been working for two months now, and yes, Sherlock is a fucking disgrace, but shite, he is clever. And good.   
"Stop whining, kiddie," he says, grinning at the glare sent his way by the younger wizard as a response to his choice of words. Which was exactly what he was going for, so hey.  
"Shut up," Sherlock mumbles, tapping his wand against the gate, causing it to open with a creak and the distinct sound of hinges in a desperate need of oil.  
And okay, it might look like shit from the outside, but hey, it's quite nice inside, he rekons. Bit spacious, but nice. Marble floors and golden ornaments, a golden harp in the middle of the hall, and most of all, people. A lot of people.  
"Did whole Ireland gather here, or what? Wait, are there even that much people in this country?" Sherlock asks, not bothering with looking at John, as the sigh the older Auror lets go is enough of an indicator for the frown that by now doubtlessly adorns the features of the talented wizard.

John leads him the way, up some stairs, down some others, countless doors on the left followed by some on the right.   
"Fucking shite, this is a labyrinth," Sherlock complains as they're walking down a hallway that seems eternal. And fuck, for all he knows, it might just be. John explained to him the Irish Ministry is older than the one in England, and nobody really knows how big the building is. Some even say there are still dragons guarding secrets deep down in the dungeons.   
And John just shrugs, gesturing him to shut up by showing his middle fingers in a way everybody under the age of 130 might be familiar with.   
He finally comes to a full stop in front of a red door, a little ornament in the shape of a harp on the door and the number 10 in silver beneath it. Sherlock almost wants to make a snarky remark on the fact they've passed more doors than even he can count, this cannot number ten, but he shuts up. Mainly because the door opens and Sherlock is greeted by the sight of a young, ginger, bearded man wearing expensive orange robes, a green coat and glasses. He signs them to come in, closes the door behind Sherlock with a flick of his wand and stands up, walking towards them. Hand stretched out, and Sherlock politely shakes it, letting it go in the same second he took it.   
"Hello," the man starts, stroking his beard with his hand while his other still clenches his wand. "You must be Sherlock and John."  
They both nod and sit down when asked to. 

What follows is the most boring meeting that might have ever existed. Two hours filled with the surprisingly monotone voice of the Irish Minister of Magic and Irish words sneaking themselves into sentences that were meant to be English, leaving John and Sherlock with a cringe engraved onto their very faces, worrying it might never fully disappear. 

"Well, that was...boring." Sherlock starts as they leave the gate behind them, the cacaphony of screeching metal and rusty hinges accompanying the movement of it closing.   
"Yessss, you might say that," John snorts, "And you have to remember, I used to have meetings with that bloke every week."  
"Go on with stories like that, and I might start to feel something that remotely resembles sympathy for you, John Watson." Sherlock grins and grins even wider as he sees the smile spreading on John's face.  
"I can hardly wait," John answers, chuckling.

-

They leave Ireland with more knowledge on the cases than they would've ever needed, unnecessary detailed pictures of bloody corpses and tortured bodies still haunting their thoughts. When they arrive back in London it's late, and as they're walking up to Sherlock's office, they walk into Lestrade.   
"How was Ireland?" he asks, handing Sherlock some files that are doubtlessly about new murders that occured during their stay in the republic of boredom and harps, as Sherlock now calls it.   
"Bloody exciting, really," Sherlock answers, grinning.   
"Really?"  
"Nope. I was actually on my way to Anderson, going to apologise for being mean to him. Turns out some people are even more capable of driving me towards the edge of insanity than he is. Overestimated him, really."   
The sarcasm that drips of every word causes Lestrade to show off an expression that's quite a ridiculous mixture of annoyance, amusement and confusion. It doesn't suit him.  
"Ah, yes," he starts, trying to straighten his face again, failing miserably, "Whatever. There's another voyage waiting for you two," he announces, as if it's great news.  
"I swear to god, if it's Ireland.." Sherlock starts, only to be cut off by Lestrade again.  
"No. Finland."  
"Finland."  
"Yes, Finland," Lestrade repeats, cringing.   
"What the fuck is a Finland?" Sherlock asks, scanning his mind palace for anything saved under that tag. Nothing. Oh, well, sauna is the only word that pops up, but he sincerely doubts that's going to be any use. He probably deleted everything on that topic, for it must've been utterly random and trivial.   
"A country, Sherlock. Scandinavia. Weird language, weird people. A boy was murdered at Durmstrangs." Lestrade sighs, pointing his finger at the paper he gave Sherlock a minute ago.  
"Durmstrang only accepts pureblood wizards," John objects, "There has been a murder similar to ours, on a pureblood?"   
"Yes," Lestrade answers, "And for fuck's sake, solve this shit. You're leaving tomorrow."  

 


	2. Durmstrang and Hogwarts

It's cold in Finland, which is, considering it's geographical position, quite unsurprising. Sherlock hadn't thought it would be this cold though. It's freezing, snow is covering everything he can see and the white colour makes his eyes sting in the most unpleasant way, forcing him to narrow them. John is used to cold weather, of course, he spent most of his life living in a country that's made out of evergreen hills, rain and clouds. Because at it turned out, John's not only stationed in Ireland, he moved there at the tender age of five. Plus, he loves quidditch, and Sherlock knows from earlier experiences which he would not like to repeat it can get pretty frosty up there.  
His whole body is trembling and his fingers are practically shaking, making him clench them to fists every two seconds, only to reassure himself they're still capable of doing so.  
He lets out a whiny moan, the air exiting in the form of a puffy, white cloud, but before he gets the chance of complaining, John takes out his wand and casts a nonverbal spell Sherlock recognises as a warmth spell. He let's out a comforted sigh and a low groan, heat spreading through his body, soothing the dull ache in his muscles.  
“Thank you,” he tells John, grinning a bit.  
“Don't mention it.”  
When they reach the apparation point, John places his hand on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's going to take him for the ride, as they say, because John isn't good at apparating and is terribly afraid of losing a limb along the way. He told Sherlock it happened once, the healers weren't able to fully restore his foot, he now has to live without two of his toes.  
Apparating has never been the easiest and most comfortable way of getting from point A to B, but the way John's fingertips bury themselves into the wet, stained fabric of Sherlock's coat give the experience a whole new dimension. He's used to his insides rearranging themselves, nausea hitting hard like a punch in the stomach and the feeling similar to being ripped apart by two stinging hexes at the same time, combined with a very strong expelliarmus, but the warm feeling, the little heated sting right beneath his ribs... that's new. That's definitely new.

 

When they apparate in front of Durmstrang, John reluctantly loosens his grip, and to Sherlock's surprise, the slight feeling of something he does not fully comprehend, remains. It's still there in his chest, heat pooling beneath his heart every time John leans in a bit closer.  
Sherlock decides not to think about it.

 

“Terve,” the blond man greets them as they enter his office. It's ridiculously bright and spacious, and it is the complete opposite of Sherlock's in every way imaginable. No piles of paper and parchment, no heaps of books placed on chairs, and most of all, no mess whatsoever.  
“Morning,” John greets back, amicably shaking hands with the older, blond man. The way they express the same grins and don't let go of each other's hands for what seems to be _too long_ tells Sherlock John knows this Huovinen guy. Sherlock doesn't; the only thing he knows is Huovinen became headmaster ten years ago, he used to be the Quidditch and History of Magic teacher before that and he used to play for the Finnish quidditch team.  
Sherlock nods instead of introducing himself or saying hello; hands still inside the pockets of his coat. He doesn't like the man, but he can't pinpoint what exactly it is that gives him this feeling of dislike.

“We heard about the boy who got murdered, which is essentially why we are here,” Sherlock starts, tone harsh and cold, “Please, be so kind and give us all the information you possess.” There's no question mark in his mind at the end of that sentence, it's not a question. More of an order, a fact.  
The coolness in his voice makes John cringe, and then look at Huovinen with a face that tells him he's sorry for the younger man's behaviour.  
“Yes,” Huovinen starts, “He was found in his dorm. Hit with the killing curse, but before he was killed, someone used curse we do not know yet. It caused his skin to rip open, and we're pretty sure that if the perpetrator had not killed him, blood loss would've gotten to him.” There's a faint, ridiculous accent colouring Huovinen's voice, and it almost causes Sherlock to chuckle.  
“Can we see him, Matti?” John asks, and the mention of Huovinen's first name is enough for Sherlock to feel intimidated. He doesn't know why, though. Maybe it's because John has this look on his face every time he blatantly stares at Huovinen, and there's this warmth in his voice Sherlock has not heard before.

He would never admit it, though. Never would he tell John about that spark of envy spiking beneath his ribcage, the place John filled with light and warmth only mere minutes ago by placing his hand on Sherlock's chest. Inches away from his heart.

 

When they leave, they leave in silence. Snow muffling the sound of their footsteps and no tries to break the awkward silence that stretched between them somewhere during the process of investigating the body.

Sherlock recognised the curse used to cut his skin open. Well, no, cutting skin open is not really what happened. Gashes, inches deep, with muscle tissue neon pink and sinews ragged.  
 _Sectumsempra._  
He knows by the look John displayed while searching the body he recognised it too. It's a curse that's considered uncommon outside of Great Britain, the only people who really know about it mostly originate from Hogwarts, or at least have social contacts that affiliate with the famous Scottish school.

Sherlock places his hand on John's shoulder, causing him to stop.  
“Hogwarts,” is all he says, and John nods.

 

-

 

It's been years since Sherlock last walked down the corridor that leads up towards the headmaster's office. And to John, it might be the first time.  
He realises he has no clue where and when John had his magical education, heck, is there even a school for wizards in Ireland?

“Did you go to Hogwarts?” he asks, genuinely interested.

“No.” John shrugs. “Home schooled,” he says, as if it explains everything.  
“Why? You live in the UK, you must've gotten a letter.”

The long and deep sigh John lets go instead of answering tells Sherlock John does not want to talk about this.

 

“Mister Weasley,” Sherlock greets, grinning from ear to ear. Who would've thought Charlie Weasley would ever live to become the new headmaster of Hogwarts? He grins at the look his brother had made as he found out his biggest rival at his old school had just taken over said school, muttering words that sounded like disgrace and fucking arse.

“Sherlock,” Charlie greeted him, smiling from ear to ear. Blindingly really. “What has given me the honour of your visit?”

“We're on a case,” Sherlock explains quickly, avoiding John's amused gaze. “We think our culprit was at Hogwarts. He used a curse...linked to this place.”  
If Charlie was affected by his words in any way he didn't show it, he just turns around and locks his hands behind his back.  
“What spell?” Charlie looks a bit distressed now, fingers wrestling and drumming unknown patterns against each other.  
“Sectumsempra.”

And yes, oh yes, he knows the spell. Sherlock can tell by the way his hands suddenly grasp each other and his knuckles turn marble white.  
“That spell...” Charlie starts, turning around slowly, “That spell was invented by an ex death-eater, who used to work at this school.”  
Sherlock nods and faintly registers John's mildly shocked face.  
“You're saying a death-eater worked at this school?” John asks, gobsmacked.

“Yes.” The answer is short and the cold glare Charlie sends John's way keeps Watson from asking any further questions on that topic.  
“Who knows this spell?” Sherlock asks, looking at Charlie with a mixture of amusement and impatience.  
“Everybody who knows about Voldemort and his followers might know it. Slytherins still pass around stories, to prove their point on blood supremacy and the other shit,” Charlie tells them, cringing at the mention of the words blood supremacy.  
“So you're saying it could be anyone,” John says, an annoyed look on his face, “Great.”

Charlie looks at him with raised eyebrows and his lips a thin line, averting his gaze to face Sherlock before answering. “I will make a list of the troublemakers Slytherin produced in the last 10 years.”

With that said, he turns around and walks through the door leading to his personal study, leaving no doubt to the fact it's their cue to leave.

 

-

 

The air in the office is charged. Electricity and sparks. There's this weird kind of tension between him and Watson ever since Sherlock met Huovinen, and it got worse after Sherlock met up with Weasley again.  
  
“What's Huovinen to you?” Sherlock asks, trying to sound only remotely interested, but he knows his curiosity is showing.

“A friend,” John answers, all gruffy and hoarse. The husky sound of it makes Sherlock's fingertips tingle and the familiar, yet scaring, feeling of light pooling beneath his ribcage returns, and Sherlock doesn't even try to understand any more. He can still tell John is lying though. Huovinen was and might just still be someone close to John Watson.  
“Liar,” Sherlock mumbles, loud enough for John to hear, waiting to see what reaction he provoked by calling him out on it.  
“Shut up,” John answers curtly, “It's none of your business.”  
Sherlock shrugs as he meets John's annoyed gaze, grinning apologetically.  
“Just interested. Working with ex boyfriends is always weird.”  
It was supposed to be a joke. A bad, poor excuse for a joke on John's behalf. But Sherlock can see by the way John's pupils dilate and his breath hitches inside his throat that he _was fucking right._  
John used to date Huovinen.

 

John is _gay_.

 

Which is not a bad thing, no, Sherlock has nothing against gay people. It's just, he did not expect this. He's good at reading people; he can tell which shampoo they prefer by looking at their shoes and whether they're single or not purely by the type of facial moisturiser they apply every day. But apparently, his gaydar has been broken for quite some time now. And now, he reckons, it's quite obvious. The way John sometimes stares at other men, how he never gets interested or flustered by the presence of a nice looking woman, how he could answer the question of past marriages with a chuckle and a resolute _no_.

Oh.

 

He briefly wonders if he should just ignore the topic now, move on and talk about something as quickly as possible, but something makes him tell John the truth.  
“That's nothing bad, of course,” Sherlock starts, looking at his hands instead of John. “I mean, I'm gay as well.”

The last words come out as a whisper, but they hit the conversation with the force of a hurricane. Sweeping away everything left to be said, leaving them bathing in unpleasant silence. And it's only long after they left his mouth, he realises how pathetic it made him sound.

“Ah.” It's everything John says before he leaves his chair, fleeing the office without another word.

 

_Shite._

 

 

 


End file.
